<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Past Your Bedtime by tiger_moran</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154015">Past Your Bedtime</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran'>tiger_moran</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Caring, Desk Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Don't copy to another site, Love, M/M, Pushy Bottoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:02:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,987</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran wakes up in the night, finding Moriarty has still not stopped working and come to bed. Going downstairs to locate him, Moran is a little surprised to discover Moriarty is open to engaging in a rather interesting way of unwinding before he finally does go to bed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Past Your Bedtime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Out of the blue I got hit with a very intense urge to write smut.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Upstairs, Moran dozes fitfully, rolling over onto his side, stretching out his arm across the bed in his half-awake state. When his fingers come into contact with nothing but the bedsheets, he jerks awake and lifts his head, opening his eyes to confirm that the space beside him is still empty.</p><p class="western">Downstairs, Moriarty is still seated at his desk, hunched over, scribbling something down. He rubs his eyes momentarily with his left hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. There is light in here in the study but it's late and the gaslights throw strange shadows across the room. When there comes a soft tap at the door, in truth he is relieved to be interrupted.</p><p class="western">“Enter,” he calls, not looking back. It's Moran; of course it's Moran.</p><p class="western">“Sir.” The Colonel, for all his familiarity with the Professor, still pauses just after he crosses the threshold into the room, for this feels like a peculiarly sacred space somehow, the Professor's study. It is a room even Moran rarely ventures into, a room where Moriarty may find privacy and solitude.</p><p class="western">“Yes?” Moriarty enquires, half-turning in his chair to regard his companion.</p><p class="western">“Aren't you coming to bed?”</p><p class="western">“In a few minutes.”</p><p class="western">“You said that three hours ago.”</p><p class="western">“Did I?”</p><p class="western">“It's way past your bedtime.”</p><p class="western">“I'm not a child, Sebastian.”</p><p class="western">“It's almost two O'clock!”</p><p class="western">Moriarty smiles thinly. “You say that as if time truly means anything, Sebastian.”</p><p class="western">“You need rest, Professor.”</p><p class="western">“Mm.” The sound is not quite agreement, not quite disapproval towards his own body's frailties and weaknesses; something in between probably. Moriarty turns back to face the desk and sets his pen down atop the paper at last. “Come here,” he instructs.</p><p class="western">Moran softly closes the door behind him and walks over to Moriarty, almost silently, his feet bare. As a concession to decency he has donned a nightshirt in order to come in search of the Professor, just in case one of the servants is still awake, but he did not trouble to put anything on his feet. He stops almost directly behind Moriarty's chair, standing upright, poised and waiting.</p><p class="western">Moriarty says nothing however for some seconds. He only picks up his pen again and adds several more lines to the neat writing on the topmost piece of paper. When at last he does speak he pauses with the pen still held above the paper. “Do you presume you can order me around, Sebastian?” he enquires.</p><p class="western">“No sir.” Moran answers with his eyes fixed forwards, but after a second or two he drops his gaze slightly to rest upon the back of Moriarty's head. He wants to bow his head and kiss the back of the Professor's neck perhaps, but he resists it, uncertain how amenable Moriarty is to such things currently. “But I can still <em>tell</em> you, you need rest, <em>sir</em>.”</p><p class="western">In response to this Moriarty smiles, warmer now, amused by this statement, by its intermingling of concern for his well-being and its challenge to his authority over the Colonel. He sets the pen down again and pushes the chair back, sliding across the carpet until the back of his chair bumps against Moran's body.</p><p class="western">Moran does not move, only waits, his head tilted very slightly to one side.</p><p class="western">Moriarty rolls his head from one side to the other and back again, trying to work a little of the stiffness out of his neck. “Come round here,” he says at last, gesturing vaguely, directing Moran, gripping him tightly by the wrist and manoeuvring him round in front of him. Almost carelessly he pushes aside the papers, the pen, and shoves Moran back so that he is seated on the edge of the desk. “So you do presume that you can <em>tell</em> me what to do, hmm?”</p><p class="western">Moran's eyes meet his, something questioning in his expression, something uncertain. Always Moran is trying to read him, trying to understand him, trying to discern what the Professor wants and does not want. “When your welfare is at stake, then yes, sir.” There is just the slightest pause in between his last two words; the merest hint of mockery in his tone. It may be very late (or early depending upon one's point of view) but this is not stopping Moran from being provocative.</p><p class="western">Moriarty still has hold of Moran's left hand and he keeps hold of it so very lightly, yet curling his fingers around the wrist in a way which very clearly conveys the idea that he could snap those fragile bones beneath the surface if he wished. He looks up into the Colonel's blue eyes, seeing not tiredness there, but something rather more like <em>arousal</em>.</p><p class="western">“Colonel,” he says, turning Moran's hand over, baring his palm, and beginning to lightly trace circles across it with the tip of the first finger of his left hand. “Perhaps it is true, it is time for me to take a little rest, relax, unwind a little, but there is more than one way to relax, is there not?”</p><p class="western">“Yes sir.” Moran's voice sounds oddly hoarse as the Professor now walks his fingers across Moran's palm, up and onto his wrist, across the bare skin there.</p><p class="western">“I cannot allow you to presume that you always know what's best for me.”</p><p class="western">“Even though I usually do?” Moran says, grinning, and his pale eyes look darker now, with lust and in the shadows, but there is real amusement there.</p><p class="western">“Even then.” Moriarty stands up at last, and he shoves Moran back, leaning over him so that the Colonel is pressed down with his back against the desk. He is tired himself, and yet... not quite ready for bed. He feels first he must get something out of his system, this tension coiled in his body. He has, he realises now, spent far too long sitting at his desk, hunched over, his hand gripping the pen. Moran's presence now then is a very welcome distraction and an opportunity to unwind before he does finally retire to bed.</p><p class="western">Moran emits a small gasp as some of the wind is knocked out of him, then a slightly pained groan as the ink blotter digs into his back. Reaching behind him he manages to pull it out and tosses it aside before reaching up to the Professor, clasping his arms around Moriarty's upper body.</p><p class="western">“May I remind you...” Moriarty draws Moran's hands down and firmly pins them against the desk, either side of Moran's head. “Precisely which one of us is in charge here?” When he withdraws his own hands, Moran's hands remain resting against the top of the desk. The Colonel looks up, still curious, still amused, and still very, very aroused – Moriarty can clearly tell that even without paying attention to what is going on further down. His own body is pressed against the Colonel's though and he can certainly feel, through Moran's shirt and his own clothing, the growing hardness of Moran's arousal there. Trailing his hand down Moran's thigh, he catches hold of the bottom edge of his nightshirt and hoists it up. “Dear me, Sebastian,” he says, “you seem to be in a state of some <em>agitation</em>.”</p><p class="western">Moran laughs, the sound low in his throat, strangely dark. “That's the effect you 'ave on me, Professor.”</p><p class="western">“Perhaps this is something that needs tending to before you can go back to sleep.” Moriarty eyes Moran's arousal almost dispassionately for a moment, before wrapping his hand around it, squeezing, on the very edge of it being too much, too hard.</p><p class="western">Moran gasps again and his hips buck sharply, unwittingly.</p><p class="western">“Ah yes,” Moriarty says, a smile playing across his lips. “Clear signs of agitation. I cannot allow you to go back to bed without taking care of this little problem.”</p><p class="western">“Less of the 'little', if you please.” Moran chuckles again, still looking up at the Professor, still impudent even in the midst of his lust.</p><p class="western">With his free hand Moriarty reaches up and gives Moran the lightest slap on the cheek with the back of his hand, little more than a slight tap, but serving as a reminder of which one of them is the master here. “Be quiet.”</p><p class="western">Moran parts his lips as if to say something anyway, then decides better of it.</p><p class="western">“I need to think about how best to deal with this.”</p><p class="western">“You could always-”</p><p class="western">Before Moran can say any more Moriarty has reached up and pinched a nipple, hard, through his nightshirt, so that Moran's words turn into a strangled cry, seemingly of pain, and yet his cock twitches noticeably in the Professor's other hand even as Moriarty gives his nipple a sharp twist. “I told you, my dove,” he says, his face pressed close to Moran's, his voice low and silky, “to be quiet.”</p><p class="western">Moran's gaze flicks over to meet his, and he laughs again. “Yes sir,” he says. “You did.”</p><p class="western">With the faintest roll of his eyes, Moriarty leans over and kisses Moran on the mouth, feeling his lover's lips part under his, feeling as well as hearing Moran practically groan into his mouth as Moriarty closes his fingers around Moran's prick once more. “Sebastian,” he says after a moment, breaking the kiss, shifting his head so that his forehead rests against Moran's while Moran lies panting under him. “I think I know how best to deal with this matter.”</p><p class="western">“Oh?”</p><p class="western">“You will need to go and fetch us something.”</p><p class="western">“Something?” Moran looks puzzled briefly.</p><p class="western">“Oil, Sebastian.”</p><p class="western">“Ah.” As Moriarty withdraws from him, Moran sits up, and then he looks perplexed once more. “You want me to go upstairs and fetch that...” He gestures vaguely downwards. “In this state?”</p><p class="western">“Well if you don't wish me to take care of this matter thoroughly...” Moriarty, folding his arms across his chest, allows this vague threat to hang in the air, conveying perfect nonchalance, as if it is of no concern to him at all what happens next.</p><p class="western">“No sir, I never said that.” Moran practically leaps to his feet, pulling the nightshirt down but really doing very little to effectively conceal his arousal. He really hopes he will not encounter one of the servants during his dash to fetch the oil, and, very mercifully, he does not.</p><p class="western">“That was quick,” Moriarty remarks when Moran returns, shutting the door again behind him. The Colonel now clasps a glass bottle in his hand and is limping very slightly. “What did you do to your foot?”</p><p class="western">“Tripped over the rug in the dark.” Moran laughs again.</p><p class="western">Moriarty sighs as he removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, so that he stands in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. “And I thought you claimed to have perfect night vision.”</p><p class="western">“I was in rather a rush,” Moran points out.</p><p class="western">“Indeed.” Moriarty takes the proffered vial from Moran's hand and sets it down on the desktop. “Are you hurt?”</p><p class="western">“No sir, it's nothing.”</p><p class="western">“Well then, perhaps you had best come here.” When Moran does so, Moriarty grips his nightshirt and swiftly pulls it off over his head, so that Moran stands before him totally naked, the shadows playing over his skin. He slides his hands around the Colonel's waist, drawing him closer, pressing the younger, more lightly built man's bare skin against his own still clothed body.</p><p class="western">Moran leans into the embrace, burying his face against the side of Moriarty's neck, his voice muffled as he says, against his skin, “Professor.” He feels Moriarty grasping his hand again, guiding it down, directing him, and more by feel than by sight he undoes the buttons of Moriarty's trousers; slides his hand inside; draws his length out of his underclothes.</p><p class="western">“Here.” Moriarty clasps Moran's hand still, tips oil into his palm, then closes Moran's fingers around his length, his own hand placed on top to continue to set the pace. He needs far more physical stimulation to become physically aroused but the pace of it has to be right. Only once he is sure Moran has got into the perfect rhythm with the movement of his hand does Moriarty relinquish his grasp and allow Moran to take over, until he can no longer quite suppress his own groans of pleasure and it almost becomes too much to bear any longer. “Wait, Moran,” he says, and Moran pauses, watching him intently still. “Turn around,” Moriarty commands, and Moran does. “Hands on the desk.”</p><p class="western">Moran stands there, palms placed against the desktop, his legs slightly parted. He glances back at the Professor briefly but a light smack against his buttocks is his reward for that.</p><p class="western">“Face forward,” Moriarty says sharply.</p><p class="western">“Aye sir,” Moran says, grinning, chuckling to himself.</p><p class="western">“Don't be insolent.”</p><p class="western">“No sir.” Still laughing, until to quiet him Moriarty forcefully pushes two oiled fingers into him with very little warning or preparation. “<em>Fuck,</em>” he breathes.</p><p class="western">“That is the general idea, yes.” Knowing Moran as he does, Moriarty is confident he can take this sudden breaching of his body, but he knows it still hurts. It is the kind of pain that goes straight to Moran's cock however, bringing it back to stand at full attention once more. “Unless you have a better idea, hmm?” Moriarty says, pausing with his fingers still inside Moran's arse. “Well do you, Sebastian?”</p><p class="western">“No... sir... none,” Moran pants.</p><p class="western">“Very well then.” And without very much further ado, Moriarty replaces his fingers with his cock, steadily easing his length into his lover inch by inch, until he is fully inside him.</p><p class="western">Moran has finally gone strangely quiet now, and oddly still, and for a second or two Moriarty wonders if this was too much too suddenly even for Moran, who is of course very used to having the Professor inside him and often rather roughly.</p><p class="western">But no. It becomes apparent very quickly that Moran is simply too overwhelmed by sensations to think of anything to say any more. Finally that smart mouth of his has been silenced, at least temporarily, and all that comes out of it now are groans and moans of pleasure as he is most thoroughly <em>fucked</em>.</p><p class="western">Moriarty takes him against the desk, his movements forceful, using his bodyweight to pin Moran in place, but he knows exactly how much the Colonel loves that; that far from feeling trapped and terrified, Moran actually thrills at being held down by the Professor like this. Moriarty meanwhile relishes the fact that Moran – who trusts so few people; who loathes having his back to anyone; who customarily when pinned down will lash out wildly – not only permits him to do this but actually enjoys it so much.</p><p class="western">His grip on Moran's hips is almost bruising as he thrusts hard inside him. He deliberately does not touch Moran's prick now, ostensibly to remind Moran of his place again but in truth he doesn't need to and even Moran seems almost heedless of it, for he still has his own hands splayed on the desk. When Moran comes, spilling forcefully across the desk, he does so without his own length being touched at all throughout this.</p><p class="western">“James,” he says when he spends, as he usually does. “James...” His eyes slipping closed, his head tipping back, reaching back to try to touch Moriarty.</p><p class="western">It takes Moriarty somewhat longer to finish, as is also often the case. As he thrusts into his lover one last time before finishing he pulls Moran hard against him, getting as deep as possible inside him before he reaches his climax. As he spills inside Moran, he bites down on Moran's shoulder, teeth indenting but not breaking the skin, smothering his own cry of pleasure as he finishes.</p><p class="western">For some moments afterwards they stand there still, Moran resting his hands against the desk once more, Moriarty slumping slightly against his back. When Moriarty slips out of him Moran feels wetness there, along with a dull ache in his shoulder where the Professor bit down. Neither trouble him much though. He wouldn't really have minded if the Professor had broken the skin – the idea of being marked more thoroughly by him rather appeals to Moran.</p><p class="western">Moriarty pulls away from him at last, taking a couple of almost stumbling steps towards the chair, sprawling into it before his legs give way under him. Looking up at Moran, he tucks his now softening length back into his trousers.</p><p class="western">“Well,” he says.</p><p class="western">“Well.” Moran bends over and retrieves his now rather crumpled nightshirt.</p><p class="western">“I think perhaps... I might be able to sleep soon.” Moriarty buttons up his trousers once again. “Once I have cleaned myself up, of course.” He glances at the desk. “And once you clean <em>that</em> up.”</p><p class="western">“Of course.” Moran smiles at him, something very soft and very fond in his expression. “I'll sort that, shall I?” he asks as he pulls his nightshirt back on over his head.</p><p class="western">“Mm.” Moriarty seems about to let Moran leave the room without any further response, before he almost jerks to attention. “Moran!”</p><p class="western">Moran halts, turns back to face him, finding the Professor beckoning to him once again.</p><p class="western">Once more Moriarty catches his hand, draws him back, turning his hand palm upwards. This time though he inclines his head to press a gentle kiss against the inside of Moran's wrist, his lips brushing over the soft skin there, over where the bluish veins run so close beneath the surface. “You are right, of course, chick,” he says, not looking up.</p><p class="western">“'Bout what?”</p><p class="western">“I should have retired to bed sooner. Perhaps, truly, I don't always know what is best for me.” The admission, made to anyone else, would pain him, but to Moran it is different; with Moran <em>everything</em> is different.</p><p class="western">“Well then.” Moran stoops and places his own very soft kiss against the Professor's cheek. Moriarty accepts it with a small smile, glancing up as Moran straightens up. “It's a good job then, isn't it,” he says, grinning again, “that you always 'ave me to take care of you.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>